“I was just telling the other moms,” I continued, projecting my voice like a stage actress in a tragedy, “about how you and my husband have been sleeping together for the past four months.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the industrial hum of the bounce house blower seemed to hold its breath.

Chelsea’s smile cracked like cheap porcelain. A child near the craft table asked, “Mommy, what does sleeping together mean?” and was immediately, violently shushed.

“Excuse me?” Chelsea tried to recover, but her voice was thin, reedy.

Mark finally moved. He rushed toward us, hands raised palms-out as if approaching a spooked horse. “Babe, hey, can we just… let’s talk outside. We’re done talking.”